


Spending Time Together In Close Proximity

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: In which Crowley absolutely doesn't cuddle, and Aziraphale's sleight of hand skills are finally put to good use.





	Spending Time Together In Close Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> If I could go back in time and tell my eleven-year-old self that I'd still be writing Good Omens fanfic in 2019, I don't think she would have believed me. She also wouldn't know what an "AO3" was, bless her heart.
> 
> It's been literally over a decade since I read the book, so this fic is sort of a bizarre amalgamation of TV show canon and book canon. Also a pinch of my own made-up canon thrown in for good measure. Don't judge me too harshly.
> 
> Also, Michael Sheen, if you're reading this, thank you for portraying Aziraphale in the most wonderful way possible. You are a gift to this world. Now if you don't mind, please stop reading before you witness me perform the world's most brutal character assassination by way of horribly inadequate dialogue.

“Do you know what never quite made sense to me?” Aziraphale said, looking up from the book balanced in his lap. It was balanced rather precariously, partly because it is the nature of books to never quite sit right in your hands no matter what position you are in (Crowley had taken credit for that, though neither he nor Aziraphale knew where it had actually come from), and partly because Crowley was currently taking up the majority of space in Aziraphale’s lap.

The reason Crowley was able to physically do this was because he was in serpent form, and thus far more flexible and less sharply-elbowed than he usually was. He had wound himself all the way around Aziraphale’s waist and had slithered up to drape himself over his neck, letting his head rest in the crook of the opposite elbow. Considering Crowley was currently about five meters long and weighed a significant amount (a lady never tells, and Crowley doesn’t either), this arrangement would have been incredibly uncomfortable for Aziraphale had he been a human. As it was, Aziraphale thought it rather cozy, like having a nice heavy blanket draped over you. Nicer than that, even, because this blanket was a very satisfied demon that Aziraphale was terribly fond of and whom he could lean down on occasion to kiss on the nose, if he so wished. And he so wished often.

At the moment, however, there was something more pressing on his mind, which he had just given voice to. In response, Crowley slowly raised his head to blink up at Aziraphale, trying to wake himself up. (He hadn’t gotten as far as napping yet, but he had been snoozing, as he often did when he draped himself around Aziraphale like this.) Crowley could not produce human language when in serpent form, but he did have an incredibly expressive face. He gave Aziraphale a look which said something like, _How could I possibly know that?_ (He was rather grumpy at being woken up from his snoozing.)

“It was a rhetorical question, my dear,” Aziraphale said patiently.

_Ah. Well, I knew that,_ Crowley’s look said, rather sheepishly.

“It’s only that—well, you’re cold-blooded, yes?”

_Technically, I don’t have blood. It’s all black, demonic, what’s-its-name, ichor in here._

Aziraphale gave him a look. Crowley grinned. Seeing a serpent grin is not something most people have done, which is a good thing, because it is a very unnerving sight. Aziraphale had seen Crowley do it many times before, so he was used to it, but even he, in his infinite capacity for love of all creatures, and especially Crowley, had to admit that it was not the best look on him.

“You’re cold-blooded,” Aziraphale said firmly, pointing a finger at Crowley’s snout. “Which is why we do this all the time, you cuddling up to me for warmth and all that.”

_I don’t_ cuddle _,_ Crowley’s look said defensively.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Of course not, my dear. But you are using me for warmth, because you are cold-blooded, and it makes you feel better, yes?”

_So?_

“So, shouldn’t it be the other way round? The angel warming the demon—that doesn’t track. Hell is, well, hot, and Heaven was always just a little too chilly for my taste. It should be the opposite, one would think.”

Crowley tilted his head to the side, which meant, _You mean, I should be warming you up?_

Aziraphale blushed despite himself. “I mean, just in the general sense. At the moment, no, I think our arrangement is quite satisfactory. But you have to admit, it seems strange that the demon is always so cold, and the angel is always so warm.”

At this, Crowley ducked his head. What he wanted to say next required the nuances of speech, and so he quickly miracled himself back into human (or, at least, human-adjacent) form. As soon as he did so, he fell out of Aziraphale’s lap and onto the floor, because Aziraphale had panicked and pushed off the human-shaped object which had unexpectedly appeared in his lap, crushing his hands and his only copy of _Love’s Labour’s Won_.

“Good Lord, Crowley!” he exclaimed, shaking out his hand and checking the book for lasting damage. He frowned deeply when he saw a crease in the binding. “Warn me next time, if you please!”

“Sorry, Angel,” Crowley said, meaning it. As he dusted himself off, he miracled the binding smooth again, which made Aziraphale’s mouth quirk in the hint of a smile, and he didn’t protest any further when Crowley joined him on the sofa. “I just thought we should continue the conversation out loud.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, as though he understood, which he didn’t.

“It’s not exactly _warmth_ , Angel, you see.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale said, still not understanding, but no longer pretending to do so.

“It’s not necessarily physical _warmth_ , you know. When we, er—you know. When we—”

“Cuddle?”

“ _Satan’s sake_ , Aziraphale—”

“Oh Crowley, _really_ , it’s just semantics—”

“When we spend time together in close proximity.”

Aziraphale peered at Crowley over his reading glasses. “Yes,” he said dryly, “let’s go with that.”

“ _When we spend time together in close proximity_ , Angel, I’m not exactly feeling warmth coming off you.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, who was back to not understanding again. “Isn’t it?”

“Well, you are _warm_. Like a human would be, or a sunny spot on a rock. But I don’t curl up on rocks or random humans very often, do I?”

Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you do with your spare time.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, as if to say, _What spare time? We’re together twenty-four-seven._ Some of his powers of expressiveness translated over to his human form.

Wisely, Aziraphale chose not to respond to this. “Well, if it’s not warmth you’re feeling from me, what is it?”

Crowley suddenly decided that his shoes were incredibly interesting to stare at. “Well, you’re an angel, Angel, you can piece it together, can’t you?”

Something clicked in Aziraphale’s head. “Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he said, leaning closer to him. “It’s all that Divine Love, isn’t it?”

Crowley stared even more intensely at his shoes. “Well, I mean, you’d think it’d be _obvious_ —”

“ _Oh, my dear._ You’re soaking up my love like a—like a—well, like a reptile in the sun, I suppose.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek, or at least tried to kiss it, because Crowley dodged him at the last second. “How _romantic_ of you, my dear serpent,” Aziraphale went on, smiling very sweetly at him, only allowing himself to moderately enjoy Crowley’s squirming.

“Yes, alright, no need to rub it in,” Crowley said as he squirmed.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, extending a metaphorical olive branch. He hadn’t extended a literal olive branch since a particularly unpleasant brunch about three thousand years ago in Ancient Athens. “I shouldn’t tease you. I suppose I should have known. Oh, but wait—!” A thought occurred to Aziraphale. (Despite what Crowley might tell you, this sort of thing did happen to him occasionally.) “Does that mean you can only feel it when we’re—”

Crowley gave him a warning look.

Aziraphale huffed, a bit of wind taken out of his sails. “When we’re _in close proximity_ , my dear. Does that mean you’re sort of . . . bereft, when you’re not draped all over me?”

_“Bereft?”_ Crowley snorted a laugh and reached over to tug on Aziraphale’s lapel, in an affectionate sort of way. “Angel, you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”

Aziraphale glanced down at his discarded book. “Too much Shakespeare, more like. Poor choice of words. _Uncomfortable_ , then. Do you feel uncomfortable when we’re not in close proximity?”

Crowley did not blush. At least, that’s what he’d tell you if you asked him, and Crowley often lied. “I don’t exactly feel _cold_. Certainly not _bereft_ but, well, er . . . it does feel . . . less nice,” he said carefully, as though he was picking the words out from a minefield.

Aziraphale gave a little put-upon sigh, mostly out of habit of being both incredibly English and incredibly queer, and extended an arm across the sofa. “Well then, my dear, no need to be uncomfortable when you’re all of two feet away from me.”

Crowley tried not to look too eager as he scooted closer to Aziraphale, tucking himself under his arm and draping his legs across his lap. Aziraphale made up for the kiss he had missed out on earlier by planting one squarely on Crowley’s forehead. Crowley, who disliked being one-upped, kissed Aziraphale on the lips in retaliation. At least, that’s how he would have described it if you asked him. Either way, Aziraphale looked pleased as punch as he went back to his book.

(This might have been because Aziraphale was terribly fond of Crowley, and quite enjoyed it when Crowley got over himself for long enough to be physically affectionate. While all of that was true, it was more likely because of the fact that Aziraphale was, despite all evidence to the contrary, actually quite adept at sleight of hand, and, with Crowley none the wiser, had successfully managed to slip the golden ring which he wore on his right pinky finger into Crowley’s breast pocket.)

* * *

 

Despite what Crowley had indicated with his eyebrow earlier, he and Aziraphale did not actually spend twenty-four-seven in each other’s presence. Crowley still owned his apartment, and Aziraphale his bookshop, and both spent a reasonable amount of time alone in their respective abodes, doing reasonable things one would do in an abode, if one happened to be an angel or a demon. Crowley had his plants to yell at, after all, and Aziraphale had his books to not sell.

They had briefly discussed the possibility of moving in together, back when they first began what one could call a romantic relationship. (One could call it that. One could also call it a flim-flam, or a filet mignon with mushroom sauce, or a dolphin. Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t, but then again, they didn’t call it anything. They simply were.) Moving in seemed like the thing to do, really; humans often did so when they felt they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. But when Crowley began moving his plants into Aziraphale’s bookshop, Aziraphale would not stop fussing, claiming they were ruining the unpleasant, musty smell of the shop and customers would find them far too appealing, and then how would he ever manage to keep them away? And when Aziraphale tried moving his books into Crowley’s apartment, Crowley complained that they were crowding up his empty shelves, and their excessive dust made him sneeze. So in the end they elected to live separately, for the sake of the kids.

Still, it really was a fine arrangement, if Crowley did say so himself. They dined together for nearly every lunch and dinner, and if they happened to spend the night over, for breakfast as well. (This often happened when they were both too drunk to bother sobering up, and simply fell asleep leaning against each other on the sofa. It would be a rather tender scene, if Aziraphale did not snore like a train engine and Crowley did not drool excessively. Still, it was quite sweet in theory.) They could literally pop over to one another’s place if they really needed to, and there was always the Bentley.

Coincidentally (and rather nicely, for the sake of this story), Crowley was driving the Bentley now, Billy Joel’s _Under Pressure_ blaring from the cassette player. He was heading back to his apartment, late at night after leaving Aziraphale’s, who had looked strangely smug as he showed him out. Crowley had been rather embarrassed about the whole cuddling (because really, that was what it was) business, but it had felt so lovely, as it always did, that he found he couldn’t protest too much when Aziraphale had let him stay in his lap for most of the evening.

Come to think of it, Crowley still felt rather lovely now. The warmth that Aziraphale exuded had followed him out the door of the shop and into the Bentley, warming him all the way down, deeper than his bones, in a way no amount of sunbathing on rocks could do. The warmth one gets from an angel’s Divine Love is nothing to sneeze at; _warmth_ doesn’t really cover it, but it’s the best word humans have for the feeling. It’s a healing, suffusing sensation, all-encompassing, reaching all the way down to one’s very soul, and when one is the sole focus of it, it can be overwhelming, and possibly even deadly. That is, if one is human, and angels are strongly advised never to project their Divine Love onto one single human at a time. On the rare occasions he was called upon to use it, Aziraphale was quite adept at spreading it out over hundreds of humans at once, or only giving the smallest hint of it to one human. The latter had happened so rarely Aziraphale could count the number of times on one hand, and he remembered each occasion quite clearly and fondly. Most of them were gentlemen whom Aziraphale had taken a personal liking to, and wanted to show off to in bed. (On one occasion, it had been a woman, but Aziraphale’s reason for doing it had been, for once, purely selfless, and unrelated to any kind of romantic entanglement.)

With other celestial beings, however, there was no limit to the amount of Divine Love they could bear, demons included, apparently. Crowley wasn’t exactly eager to examine that particular conundrum too closely, so he didn’t. Instead, he regularly slithered his way into Aziraphale’s arms to receive the greatest gift an angel could bestow upon another being. (Crowley tried not to think about that fact too hard, because when he did his stomach did all sorts of unpleasant things and he had to go lie down for a bit, or, if they were within earshot, yell at his plants.)

Something that had never happened before, though, was the warmth staying with Crowley long after he’d left Aziraphale’s side. Physical contact was always required; even sitting on the other side of the sofa didn’t have the same effect. Crowley frowned to himself as he took the turn onto his street at 110 kilometers an hour. He parked the Bentley on the side of the road, careful to take up two spots, and hurried upstairs to his apartment.

Because he was distracted, Crowley only spared enough time to glare at his plants halfheartedly before making his way into his bedroom. He intended on—what was the expression? Oh yes, “catching some Zs”—while the lovely warm feeling was still in his system. With a quick miracle his shirt and shoes were whisked away to the back of his sparse closet, neatly folded and turned in, respectively. With a satisfied sigh, rather unbefitting of a demon, but really, who was counting anymore, Crowley fell onto the bed. The bed had cost more than a year’s salary for most of London’s working class, and was meant to feel, by design, like lying on a slab of marble covered in an oversized doily. It suited Crowley down to his toes.

The minutes ticked by peacefully as the demon slumbered. Except, wait, no—he wasn’t slumbering. He wasn’t even close to snoozing, let alone napping. Crowley opened his eyes and glared around the empty room, as though the blank walls and single light fixture were to blame for his wakefulness. He glared down at the bed, which seemed to shudder under his ire, but it had no answer for him, either.

Then, like a runaway lorry on a previously deserted country road, it hit him. The warmth was gone. All that lovely, warm love had left his system, and now he just felt cold and jittery, and not the least bit tired. Growling with frustration, Crowley launched himself off of the bed and towards the door, already planning what he was going to say to his begonias to get them to bloom bright enough to hurt a human’s eyes. As an afterthought, he snapped his fingers to miracle his shirt back onto his body.

The thing about Crowley (well, one of the things about Crowley) was that he never appeared to have more than a tenuous grasp on how his limbs ought to behave. After watching him take more than two steps, one could be forgiven for thinking that Crowley hadn’t quite ever gotten over his days of slithering, and that walking around on two long, slightly bendy appendages was chronically awkward for him. One could think that, but one would be wrong. The truth was that Crowley had been sauntering ever since he'd been banished from Heaven, and had seen no reason to stop after six thousand years, not when he’d gotten so good at it. The ten thousand hour rule, after all, was tiddly-winks compared to how much time Crowley had spent sauntering down on Earth.

When Crowley’s shirt appeared back on him as he fled from his bedroom, however, all of that experience went out the proverbial window. While Crowley’s well-trained feet stopped short in the doorway, his legs were a bit slow on the uptake, and his torso had a difficult time making up its mind as to whether it wanted to follow the feet or the legs. The result of this was a very discombobulated Crowley, legs askew, clutching the doorframe, having narrowly avoided mashing his face into the polished hardwood floor.

“Oh, _Heaven_ ,” Crowley said, quite appropriately, because the warmth was back, and he thought he knew why. He could feel something small and metallic in his left breast pocket, and when he fished it out, he had to curse again. “Oh, _bless it_ , you blessed angel!” he cried, and promptly miracled himself across town, leaving nothing but plants trembling with relief behind.

* * *

 

Aziraphale did not often indulge in frivolous pleasures like bubble baths. At least, that’s what he’d tell you if you asked him, and Aziraphale often lied. However, on this particular occasion, Aziraphale reasoned that a bubble bath was well-deserved. He had just spent a lovely evening with Crowley, managing to get away with some rather tricky sleight of hand while he was at it, and was feeling quite satisfied with himself. Besides, it was due to rain any minute now, and surely a bubble bath was just the preemptive cure for an incoming dark and stormy night. He felt that he had more than earned some pampering. (Aziraphale had a knack for coming up with reasons, good and bad, to pamper himself.)

He was lounging in the nearly-overflowing tub, one foot hooked over the edge, rubber duck sitting on his chest, and was about to pour some more lavender scent into the water, when he heard a crash from downstairs.

Aziraphale was not one to presume the worst of strangers, but like any bookshop owner worth his salt, he always presumed the worst of his customers. With a sigh and a miracle, Aziraphale was downstairs amongst his bookshelves, perfectly dry and clothed in his usual tartan affair, in less time than it takes to say “My, that angel can move quite fast when he wants to.” What he found, however, was not a particularly tenacious reader, nor even a moonlighting book thief.

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, for that was who it was. He was sprawled across an oriental rug, one of his legs hooked on a fallen end table, looking understandably cross. Aziraphale moved to help him to his feet. “My dear, did you forget that I redecorated last month? You should always take care to check before you miracle yourself somewh—”

“You!” Crowley said, pulling his arm out of Aziraphale’s grasp and standing up on his own. (“Standing up” is perhaps a polite way to put it. Crowley did not so much stand up as he did struggle to disentangle himself from the end table, trip twice in the process, and wind up on his feet mostly by accident and pure, dumb luck.)

Aziraphale put a hand on his chest. “Me?” he said, as though he was utterly confused. He was, in fact, fairly sure why Crowley was furious with him, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“You!” Crowley said again. “Angel, I cannot be _lieve_ you sometimes!”

“My dear, what in the world are you talking about?” Aziraphale blinked at him in what he hoped was an innocent-looking way. (It was not, but Crowley was too mad to notice.)

“You—you! You, Aziraphale, you are a _terrible_ angel.”

“Am I?”

“Oh, _yes_. Absolutely the worst. I can’t believe they let you out of Heaven to run wild for even a _second_ , Aziraphale.”

“Oh, do _tell_ , my dear Crowley.”

“I mean, _what_ kind of angel”—Crowley was fishing around in his breast pocket—“just goes off without a care in the world”—he pulled something shiny out of it—“and _gives away_ ”—he thrust the golden ring at Aziraphale’s face—“his own damned _halo_ to a blessed _demon_?!”

For several moments, Aziraphale could only stare at Crowley, and Crowley could only stare at Aziraphale. And so for a good long while they just stared at each other in the suddenly very heavy silence, the ring glinting conspicuously in the space between them.

At last, Aziraphale said, “Do you—Is it—” He had really only wanted to break the silence, and had not bothered to think of what he wanted to say yet. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just . . . I wanted to give you some warmth for the road, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up so quickly the Bentley would have been impressed. “So you give me _this_?” He shook the ring, which he was holding between his thumb and forefinger as though it might burn him, at Aziraphale for emphasis. “Angel, you can’t just hand over something like this to any poor sod who crawls into your lap asking for a handout.”

“But I didn’t just give it to any poor sod!” Aziraphale burst out. From behind his head, there began to effuse a slight glow of angelic light. “I gave it to _you_! And make no mistake, my dear, I do not make decisions like that lightly. _You_ ,” Aziraphale said as he plucked the ring from Crowley’s hand, “are my best friend in all the world. I love you more dearly than words can say. There is no one I would trust more with my Earthly body, or with my immortal soul, _or_ ,” he said as he slid the ring onto Crowley’s pinky finger, “with my halo.”

Crowley’s hand trembled as he stared down at the ring. He had never worn something so Divine before. If he was honest, he half-expected it to do something interesting, like burst into flame, or brand his skin, or turn into an inchworm and start crawling away. Instead, it sat on his finger, just as a ring ought to do.

“I wanted you to have a bit of love to keep with you,” Aziraphale was saying. “In case you needed it. You always seemed so happy curling up in my arms, and I didn’t know why until today.”

Crowley tried very hard to make it look as though he wasn’t growing teary-eyed. “Angel,” was all he could say.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Oh, my dear,” he said, and took Crowley’s ringed hand in both of his. “None of that now, I gave this to you as a gift, I won’t have you crying over it.”

“I am not _crying_ ,” Crowley sniffled.

“Of course not, my dear.”

“. . . It _does_ feel nice. I mean, it feels like you feel when we—you know.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “When we spend time together in close proximity?”

“Yeah, that.” Crowley wiped at his eyes surreptitiously. He was normally an expert at being surreptitious, but because Aziraphale was standing directly in front of him, he was not very successful. “Could I . . . _augh_. Are you letting me keep it?”

Aziraphale beamed, and the glow that still hovered around his head grew even brighter. In lieu of an answer, he bent and kissed Crowley’s hand (though really, that was all the answer that was needed).

“Ah. Well. Good,” Crowley said, and then bent down to kiss Aziraphale’s lips. The startled little sound Aziraphale made against his mouth and the subsequent feeling of his warm hands on Crowley’s face made the halo’s aura seem like small potatoes.

Outside, a cold, bitter rain had started to fall on London, but on a sofa in A.Z. Fell’s bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale were, as usual, keeping themselves very nicely warm.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for Aziraphale's ring being his halo from [this Tumblr post](https://tiger-in-the-flightdeck.tumblr.com/post/185759463702/aziraphales-winged-ring-is-actually-his-halo).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
